February 2010

February 27, 2010

The distressed walls at BAM's Harvey Theater form a perfect backdrop for the deconstructed world of this excellent production of “The Tempest,” performed in a well-paced, intermission-less two hours and 15 minutes, in repertoire with “As You Like It.”

According to the BAM notes, director Sam Mendes paired these plays for the Bridge Project's second season, conceiving of them as “a single journey.” If in the earlier play, characters retreat from unsettling politics to the forest, here they land shipwrecked on a distant shore.

As we first see Prospero (the ever intelligent Stephen Dillane), he dons a torn waistcoat and feather belt, an outfit befitting a homeless man as well as an exiled king, and struts and frets about a circle of sand, the center of the play's action.

The slave Caliban (Ron Cephas Jones with long curled claws) emerges from that brilliantly conceived sand pit, as the ethereal Ariel (Christian Camargo) comes forth through the light, the first a man-animal, the latter a man-spirit, each subject to Prospero's command. In some of his incarnations-in a suit, evening gown, and wearing steel wings worthy of creatures in “Avatar”-Ariel carries the play's spectacle allowing Prospero's sorcery, the storm that forces others to this mini-kingdom: a fine ensemble including Prospero's usurping brother Antonio (Michael Thomas) and his posse, the comic pair Trinculo and Stephano (Anthony O'Donnell channeling W.C. Fields and Thomas Sadoski), and Ferdinand, son of the King of Naples (Edward Bennett), a proper suitor for Prospero's daughter Miranda (Juliet Rylance).

As one of Shakespeare's “problem” plays, “The Tempest” challenges the usual categories: it is not really funny, although one bit where Caliban hides under a tarp already occupied by the suited Trinculo making a two-backed, four-legged beast--all sexual innuendo invited--is hilarious. Yet it does end happily as “As You Like It” does, with those who would wed together, and a ruler in place, more wise than vengeful.

February 24, 2010

That sexy gap-toothed self-help guru of the Middle Ages, Chaucer's Wife of Bath, in her own quest discovered that what women want most is self-rule. Now in the Age of Autonomy for women, a new book The Nine Rooms of Happiness suggests desire has shifted.

As written by Self Magazine editor-in-chief Lucy Danziger informed by the clinical expertise of Dr. Catherine Birndorf, what women want most is more than the slimmest waistline, the hunkiest lover, the highest paycheck and other perks of a fabulous career! More than the big picture, it's the little things that count.

Using the conceit of a house, the authors move from room to room, from the basement clutter to attic heirlooms suggesting that cleaning up the mess is really inner housekeeping. And, anyway, the journey is a matter of recognition: you are probably happier than you think.

Perched on the stairs overlooking the dining area of the Monkey Bar, Danziger proclaimed, if she were ever bat mitzvahed, this was it. Celebrants including Charlie Rose, Dylan Lauren, Hoda Kotb, and Evelyn Lauder sipped sparkling wine and munched on shrimp and sliders and red velvet cupcakes looking happy indeed.

February 22, 2010

In town for an AFTRA Lifetime Achievement Award, the legendary Sam
Moore performed at the Highline Ballroom on Sunday night. The
consummate showman began his set from a booth in the back, teasing the
crowd with “Hold on, I'm Coming,” till the boyish 74 year old made his
way to the stage.

A perfect concert followed, featuring a first-rate band, backup singers
including a rocking Chrissy Poland, and his trademark tunes, “Knock on
Wood,” “What I Want,” “I Can't Stand the Rain,” and “Blame it on the
Rain,” until he sang “When Something is Wrong With My Baby” and someone
shouted out: “Not here tonight.”

And then the unexpected: Sam called Ryan Shaw to the stage. Shaw had
performed an opening set, remarking that he was honored that The Sam
Moore even knew who he was. The music child of Ashford and Simpson, who
just happened to be listening in, as was Steve Van Zandt, Shaw then
performed with Moore and Valerie Simpson. “Soul Man,” “Dance to the
Music.” The music from Shaft paid homage to Isaac Hayes and then Moore,
Shaw and Simpson performed “You are so Beautiful” in tribute to Billy
Preston. The show ended with Sam's “A Rainy Night in Georgia.”

As you congratulate Sam Moore on a great show and the award he so well
deserves, he comes back, serious: “how about those fish 'n' chips you
were munching on? I didn't get any.” I went home and played his CD,
Overnight Sensation. I just didn't want the music to end.

February 20, 2010

The oxymoron of “Happy Tears,” a title from a signature Roy Lichtenstein painting, can refer to the comfort of living with the dysfunction one has known all one's life. In Mitchell Lichtenstein's funny and weird fictional tale of two sisters, an LA socialite Jayne (Parker Posey) and her hippyish sister Laura (Demi Moore), coping with their father's Alzheimer's, Jayne wears a pair of $2800 boots as she wipes the shit off her father's rump. That's the least of his senescence, which also involves taking up with a drug-addled floozy (Ellen Barkin) with big tits, wild hair, and bad teeth.

The father, played by the scene chewing Rip Torn who in real life recently made headlines brandishing a gun in a bank. The character was based on a father in the filmmaker's extended family: a bit where he has a buried treasure of coins in the backyard comes from real life, said Lichtenstein in a recent interview.

When asked how he worked with Torn, Lichtenstein said, “He says he has more working credits than any other actor. He really understood the character so it was really about making sure he was happy and comfortable. He is a great actor and a great comedian.” As to the scandal: “No one was hurt. I was pretty much only happy about it when I heard for that reason. Good publicity.”

Cindy Kleine's documentary, “Phyllis and Harold,” illustrates that she is no stranger to “happy tears” herself. At first her parents seem to come out of central casting for an upscale Long Island couple of a certain age. Kleine said she realized she had a movie seeing the treasure trove of slides her father Harold had made of their family. Then at 18 she discovered her mother's secret life, a boyfriend in the early years of the marriage, who reappears later for a late-life tryst.

Much of this documentation fascinates in the way the unremarkable can resonate, reminiscent of the documentaries Alan Berliner made of his parents. But here is a coincidence: During much of their marriage, Phyllis and Harold traveled. After his death, Phyllis said appreciatively, surprising as she kvetched a lot, “he showed me the world.” Turned out, Kleine said in an interview, Alan Berliner's mother was their travel agent. That world was indeed small!

February 18, 2010

“He's the best young actor around,” said Julie Taymor of Ben Whishaw at the Lucille Lortel Theater opening of a new play, Alexi Kaye Campbell's The Pride, a recent hit in London. Taymor knows, having directed the young actor as Ariel in The Tempest, to be released by Disney in December. “That's why I'm here tonight,” she added. In The Pride, Ben Whishaw gets a fresh fifties' haircut, a handsome change from his longer coif as John Keats in Bright Star. With agility and grace he plays Oliver, a writer who in the first scene recounts an epiphany experienced at the Oracle at Delphi to a couple upon first meeting the husband, Philip, the equally fetching Hugh Dancy and wife, Sylvia, a one-time actress, now an illustrator with the lovely Andrea Riseborough in the role: “Everything will be all right.”

The “everything” is sexually transgressive for 1958, as the air in the living room becomes palpably man-to-man heavy. Segue to 2008, where Oliver, same actor, same sexual proclivities in the permissive present must face the consequences of his promiscuity. His lover, Philip, (Dancy) has moved out. An actress, Sylvia (Riseborough), is an attentive friend. Adam James, in a variety of parts provides humorous and touching moments-for example, impersonating a Nazi in a fizzled kinky interlude.

As ably directed by Joe Mantello, The Pride is especially resonant in a violent scene where Oliver speaks of his love for Philip who responds in shame. The idea of pride in one's desires might be taken as a plea for openness; as Oliver says to the closeted Philip, you have an opportunity to find out who you are. The Pride may be about sexual identity, but the subtext is loneliness, and in that regard no one suffers more than the emotionally generous Sylvia, in both her incarnations.

February 15, 2010

You will scream, “Highway robbery!” as it hits you that the villains in the provocative documentary, The Art of the Steal, to open this week--about the untoward fate of a very special painting and sculpture collection--are some of the most respected arts institutions in America.

Albert C. Barnes' rise from the poorest slums of Philadelphia to developing an antiseptic drug and buying up with his fortune what is considered the best collection of post-impressionist-early modernist art is on the one hand the American Dream enacted, and on the other, in terms of how his will has been thwarted, a cynical view of how a man's legacy can be manipulated by the greedy and powerful.

The film ably limns this history, most interestingly as it shows how Barnes' collection grew, defining what was “Barnes worthy”-any old Van Gogh would not do. This man had an extraordinary eye, amassing what is now deemed the work of great masters; moreover, in 1922, he displayed the collection in unusual arrangements in the rooms of a house in suburban Merion, Pa, not far enough away from Philadelphia arts society. Matisse is said to have thought the Barnes Foundation the best place to see art.

Barnes was as deliberate about his wishes for the collection after his death and planned his estate stipulating that the foundation remain open for educational purposes only, that the collection not tour, and most important, remain intact as is.

Trouble arises soon after Barnes died in a car accident; various factions vie for control of the prestigious and rich collection. The film thrillingly shows how key personnel disregard Barnes' intentions. Through a court system as addled as Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce, Barnes' advocates attempt to keep the collection where it is, as institutions like the Pew Charitable Trust seek to administer this art cache now worth an estimated $25 billion.

You wish to hear how respected museums justify their appropriation, but few agreed to be interviewed. You wish for justice, that somehow this documentary might have the Errol Morris effect, changing its future: that somehow the dismantling and moving of this valuable collection will not occur, even as construction of a new building on Philadelphia's Benjamin Franklin Parkway is now underway.

The film's premiere last week, appropriately at MoMA and with an afterparty at the midtown Haunch of Venison gallery, with its views overlooking Manhattan was attended by arts and film mavens: Lola Schnabel, Stella Schnabel, Michael Stuhlbarg , Barbara Kopple, Albert Maysles and John McEnroe. Some frustration set in as the filmmakers, director Don Argott, producer Sheena Joyce, and executive producer Lenny Feinberg fielded criticism for not having interviewed the right people.

Arts journalist David D'Arcy who appears in the film predicts the worst is yet to come for the Barnes collection: some paintings will have to be sold, enacting Albert C. Barnes' worst nightmare.

February 08, 2010

When I was a little girl, my mother used to make my clothes; all I wanted was store-bought dresses. Today, I am convinced I can do anything, as long as I am wearing the right outfit. When my daughter was a little girl, I shopped for her at Bendel's. Today, no matter what occasion, she wears Casual Friday. This welter of memories came up at the Westside Theatre, after seeing a production of “Love, Loss, and What I Wore” last month, and so I wanted to see it again, this time with my daughter.

As the five actresses of “Love Loss and What I Wore” meticulously lay out every meaningful bit of wardrobe-the Brownie uniform, the prom frock, the two dresses daddy bought before he left for good, the push up bra, the purse, the bathrobe-the words exert the power of Proust's madeleine for me. My daughter thinks, fascinating, but that's so yesterday, but then as this play sneakily offers a trip down memory lane for all, some lines resonate: “No I can't return it because I bought it on sale.” She wonders, are the younger actors as obsessed with clothes as her mom's generation?

And so as the play's new cast, formidable and funny, comprised of Carol Kane, Janeane Garofalo, Joanna Gleason, Caroline Rhea, and June Diane Raphael, a requisite mix of young and old and different body types, took off their black and joined the celebration at Marseilles, she could see that Janeane Girafola had removed her sequins in favor of a dark cotton tee shirt and jeans, and still looked somewhat subversive.

For me Caroline Rhea is a hilarious stand up comic on Comedy Central; my daughter knows her as one of the aunts from Sabrina, The Teen Aged Witch, and could pick out the television show's star Melissa Joan Hart at the party, a reassuring piece of her childhood.

“Love, Loss”'s Gingy is based upon the true-life character created by Ilene Beckerman who, in a style I'll call gypsy chic-bandanna, long skirt-- told me she has seen the play with its rotating cast fifteen times. Loving the way each actress brings something new to her role, she pointed out, “This is not real life. Real life is home in New Jersey, with the house, the problems, the grandkids.”

Delia Ephron, who co wrote the clever script with her sister Nora Ephron, has recently completed a book, titled "The Girl with the Mermaid Hair," about daughters dealing with their mother's plastic surgery. They are struggling with self-image in a way that “Love, Loss, and What I Wore” only begins to define. This Pandora's box may require more than “Love, Loss”'s cathartic laughs.

February 03, 2010

Members of the Motion Picture Academy assure me, financial success, even the overwhelming Avatar billions, is no criteria for Best Picture Oscar. We have seen the Avatar story in many incarnations in various genres, and The Hurt Locker has a fresh narrative strategy. Awesome as Avatar is, I don't see it as Best Picture over the tighter, more thrilling achievement of The Hurt Locker.

This is not to limit the race to these contenders, but as discussed on Charlie Rose's excellent panel on Tuesday night: Annette Insdorf, Stephanie Zacharek, Dana Stevens, and A.O. Scott, a dark horse may exist in one of the other eight fine nominees, but really, these two movies define the award season race.

And ditto for Best Director. The well deserving Kathryn Bigelow should get the statue on the merit of the work, and, if history is made, so be it.

Precious based on Sapphire's Push may also present an opportunity for historic moment. As Dana Stevens put it, she felt “bludgeoned” by this movie. And yes, the performances are so good, you could feel for Precious, and surprisingly, her abusive mother too.

Without selecting one to knock off the list, I liked C more than most critics. I never understood the negative take on this highly entertaining movie. Compare it to 8 1/2. Remember Marcello, a colleague pointed out, look at the humor he brought to the Fellini film on which the show Nine and now the movie was based. True, Daniel Day Lewis as Guido is strong in suffering, a bold brooder, sexy in suits, yet short on comedy. Still. His work block seems especially real.

Inglourious Basterds deserves a category all its own for subversive humor and Tarantino's passionate, outsized, wicked and witty imagination. Best Live Action Cartoon.

The Blind Side and personal faves: A Serious Man and An Education. The animated Up may be one of the best movies I've ever seen on an airplane, and speaking of airplanes, Up in the Air is the kind of smart movie that is superbly attuned to the Zeitgeist. Best Picture for any of these? Hmm.

But one member of the academy cautioned me to avoid assumptions: “The Academy doesn't think like anyone else. You may be surprised.”

February 02, 2010

Opening his 1955 novel Lolita, Nabokov's narrator Humbert Humbert describes himself as “a salad of racial genes.” In hindsight, and based upon Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr.'s new PBS series, Faces in America--to air on Wednesdays, February 10 through March 3--perhaps the novelist was being less metaphoric and more real than he imagined.

At Jazz at Lincoln Center's Rose Room, with city views stretching east along Central Park South, one episode of the four-part series called “Know Thyself” was screened on Monday for a crowd that included Brian Williams, Lynn Nesbit, S. Epatha Merkerson, David Remnick, McGee Hickey, and Henry Louis Gates, Sr.

Harry Evans asked before Tina Brown could stop him, had I spit into a cup? Was my DNA tested? The night proceeded like something of a parlor trick with Gates a charming host. Guess who is related to whom.

Believing that the triumph of American democracy is its melting pot, its immigrants, diversity, and genetic ancestry, Gates has been busy tracing the genes of some prominent Americans, among them Mario Batali, Eva Longoria and Yo-Yo Ma.

Here is what we found out both onscreen and off: Poet Elizabeth Alexander is descended from Charlemagne. With his Russian Jewish ancestry film director Mike Nichols is related to the heart surgeon/ tv host, Dr. Mehmet Oz, a Muslim Turk.

Upon discovering that he and Gates had genetic material in common, Regis Philbin said gamely, “I am honored. There is no one in my family who even went to Harvard.” And, how in the world do I explain this to Kelly Ripa? Lots of luck, Reeg.

Despite scientific experts participating in this captivating study, the significance of this material will bemuse skeptics. Meryl Streep illustrated her diabolical sense of irony when asked how the discovery of her ancestors going back several centuries made her feel: more important than I already am, she quipped rolling her eyes.

Gates pointed out that the results prove no matter what was going on throughout human history as regards race, class, ethnicity, once the lights were down, everyone was sleeping with everyone else. That said, here is no surprise: Hollywood Reporter's celebrity columnist Roger Friedman is genetically joined, an “autosomal” cousin, to gossip doyenne Cindy Adams.